


A Grand Day Out

by WulfenOne



Series: Butterflies With Angel Wings [21]
Category: X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Vacation, alone time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-18
Updated: 2017-10-18
Packaged: 2019-01-19 08:47:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12407091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WulfenOne/pseuds/WulfenOne
Summary: Warren Worthington III takes his infant son Thomas out on his first day trip, and makes two new friends in the process.





	A Grand Day Out

Betsy looks at me as if she's just swallowed a hand-grenade. "You want to  _what?_ " she asks, as if she can't quite believe what I've just asked her. I'm not sure why that would be the case, though – it seems like a perfectly natural thing to do, from my point of view at least.

"I want to give you some time off – take Tom out with me for the day," I say again, shifting my son in my arms a little so that I can get a better hold on him. He smiles a gummy smile at that, as if it's the best thing I've ever done for him, or ever will. "Just me and him, so we can really get to know each other properly. I think we'd both like that opportunity – wouldn't we, slugger?" In response, Tom smiles again and then yawns widely, his little pink tongue showing between his blue lips. That seems like agreement enough for me, so I tell Betsy so.

Pacing back and forth like a caged panther, Betsy folds her arms across her chest and puts a hand to her forehead, creasing the skin of her cheeks slightly, and accentuating the faint worry lines in her forehead at the same time. "That's as may be, Warren, but Tom isn't exactly the best judge of character in the world. And besides, he won't fit around your day at the office. Don't tell me that the past month hasn't taught you that he works to his own timetable?" As she speaks, she gestures at the dark circles around her eyes (which are pretty obvious physical evidence of the sleepless nights that both she and I have spent cradling our son, trying to get him to sleep properly after a midnight feed or diaper-change), as if to underline her point. She needn't have bothered, really – I know from looking at myself in the mirror lately that I've got pretty identical marks of exhaustion on my face too.

"I know that, Betsy," I begin, stifling an involuntary yawn. "That's why I'm not going to go to the office today. I was planning to take Tom to the city instead, and maybe spend some time in Central Park. Maybe he and I could play some catch together?"

Betsy rolls her eyes, and gives me a don't-make-me-come-over-there kind of smile.

"All right, Warren. I can see I'm not going to discourage you, so let me give you a little bit of help preparing," she says, putting her hands on her hips over the folds of her plain turtleneck sweater, before walking across our room and picking up the carry-all that we use to move around all the things Tom needs during the course of a normal day. She opens it and begins to fill it with items from the bedroom closet, putting into the bag some diapers, a box of wipes and a changing mat. On top of those, she lays a couple of brightly-coloured soft toys – a purple and yellow-polka-dotted octopus with bells on the end of each arm, who we've named Octy (for obvious reasons), and a giraffe in orange and red, who we call Dot (because she has a small splotch of red in the centre of her side). These two toys have served the three of us well in the past month, since Tom has been enchanted with them whenever he's seen and heard them. I think I'm going to need them at least once today, but even if it doesn't turn out that way, it's nice to have a back-up plan.

Laying Tom down on our bed, I quickly walk over to the small linen closet set into the wall next to our bed and find what seems to be Tom's favourite blanket – the Donald Duck one I bought for him when he was born. Almost as soon as I pick it out, Tom gurgles happily and holds his small hands up as much as he can. It's heartening to see I've made such an impact on him this early, so I sit down next to him and let him touch the blanket gently. "Wow," I whisper. "I think I've found something that'll keep him happy all day."

"Warren, you should know by now that the real trick is to find something that keeps him happy all night as well," Betsy replies, winking at me before busily rooting around in the closet for some wipes and baby powder. When she finds what she's looking for, she stuffs them into the carry-all and then grabs an empty bottle, passing it to me with one hand and picking out another with her free fingers. "Here you go – you'll need a couple of those, I'm guessing. I think there's some formula downstairs in the kitchen, in the cupboard under the cutlery drawer, unless Hank has stolen it for some experiment or other."

"Wouldn't surprise me," I laugh. "He probably thinks it'd be an ideal substitute for gunpowder, or something."

"Shh!" Betsy says, putting a finger to her lips quickly. "He might be listening to us on the intercom right now! We don't want to give him any ideas, do we?"

At that point, Tom squeals loudly, as if he is agreeing with his mother that Hank should be kept out of Worthington family affairs. That makes me grin involuntarily, and I reach over to the bag I'm supposed to be lugging out of the mansion with me, drawing out Octy with one hand. With a gentle flick of my wrist, I shake the little toy and make the bells on the end of his legs jangle musically. Tom follows every movement of Octy's body, his blue eyes moving here and there as he tries to keep up with their blurry, noisy motion, and his little ears prick up as at the same time the small bells on Octy's legs jingle softly.

"I think I'm onto a winner here, Betts," I say, taking care to keep my voice low. "Maybe I should get one of these things for my office; I'm sure the board could use one…" The image of my executives hypnotised by a bouncing purple and yellow stuffed octopus is too amusing for me not to share it with Betsy, and she laughs when she feels the mental picture of it enter her mind.

"If I were you, Warren, I'd think about getting one for Rebecca first," she chuckles. "I think she'd benefit from it, don't you?"

"Now that you come to mention it, yeah, I think she might. It'd help her with her inner rebel – it'd be a better cure for those teenage sulking fits she gets sometimes than Logan and his bar-stool philosophy, that's for sure."

Betsy purses her lips. "Now, now, Warren, don't be rude about Logan. He  _is_  my friend, you know."

"Yeah, yeah, I know," I reply, shaking my head and glancing at the ceiling for a moment or two. "And I'll still never understand why."

"Of course not," Betsy tells me triumphantly, fluttering her eyelashes at me. "A lady has to have her secrets, after all…"

Breakfast is quick and functional for both of us. No double-portions of toast and coffee today – only a single croissant each, plus a glass of orange juice – before we have to return to getting me (and Tom) ready for the day ahead. Betsy tries to feed Tom from a warmed bottle of formula instead of her own breast, in order to prepare him for the day ahead, but as usual he seems pretty horrified by the idea, and tells us both exactly how he feels by wailing loudly. Eventually Betsy has to give in and let him nurse from her, which raises his mood almost instantly.

"I hope you're prepared for a lot of noise today, Warren," she says while Tom suckles quietly from her. "Unless you're planning a sex-change operation on the way to the city, I don't think you'll be able to do this – ow!" She winces in discomfort as Tom touches a slightly sore spot on her nipple in his insistent, needy search for his breakfast. "Count yourself lucky." When Tom has taken his fill, and she has set him down in his carry-chair and buttoned herself up, she rubs at her breast and curses softly. "To think I decided motherhood wasn't for me when I was younger," she says, rolling her eyes. "What  _was_  I thinking?"

"I could always… kiss it better, you know," I suggest, winking at her.

Her tongue pushed out between her lips like a naughty schoolgirl, Betsy bats me away with the back of one hand, before putting the bottle, and a few others, into my carry-all. "Don't even think about it, lover-boy. If my breasts get sore from a little mouth touching me, think what a big mouth would do." She waits for realisation to dawn in my mind, and then nods appreciatively, folding her arms across her bosom. "Yes, I thought you might see it my way. Perhaps you could buy me some nipple shields while you're out doing that whole 'male bonding' thing with our son?"

"Sure," I say. "Might as well make myself useful, right?"

Betsy snaps her fingers, as if I've just hit upon a deep universal truth. "Exactly. There's a first time for everything, after all." She blows me a kiss to appease my tried-and-tested hang-dog expression, and chuckles. "Oh, you know I'm only playing with you, sweetheart. Have a good day – bring my son back in one piece, all right?" She telepathically kisses my mind at the same time she plants her lips firmly on my own, producing a not altogether unpleasant all-round sensory experience.

"I'll try, honey," I say once she has broken the kiss. "I'll see you later, I guess. Love you."

"Love you too," Betsy murmurs, before bending at the waist and brushing her lips across Tom's sky-blue forehead. "Take care of your daddy for me, precious. Don't let him get into any mischief while the two of you are gone." She pauses, laying her cheek against Tom's for a moment or two, before she kisses him again and then, slowly, takes a step back from him. The expression on her face tells me that she really would prefer to come along with the two of us, but our rapport also tells me that she thinks (despite her better judgement) that this will be good for me, so she's letting me go.

Time for some trademark Worthington reassurance, I think…

"We won't be gone too long, Betsy," I say softly. "We'll be back before you know it, I promise."

Betsy laughs despite herself. "I'll hold you to that, Mr Worthington." She waves lightly at the door. "Go on. Get out of here before I change my mind."

* * *

 

It's a short drive into the city, and then Tom and I are on our own. Tom is strapped to my chest in a brightly-coloured harness, resting his head against me as he sleeps, and I've got Octy clutched in one hand, just in case my son decides he doesn't want to play along (and he's done that plenty of times so far, so it's not like I'm pulling the idea from right out of the blue). I've left my image inducer off, simply because Tom is too small to have one of his own (usually they slip into a pocket or whatever, but Tom doesn't have any pockets – and wrist-mounted ones wouldn't fit him either, since they don't come in a "tiny" size) and I don't want him to be the only one who has to run the gauntlet. It wouldn't be fair.

Besides, it's too nice a day to be hiding behind a hologram. So we go into the city together, both of us as blue as the sky overhead and not afraid to show it (well, Tom is too busy sleeping to make any kind of statement, but that's not the point). It's that time of the day when most people are at work, so the streets aren't as busy as they perhaps would be, but there are still a lot of people around. It's not long before I get the usual snide glances and blank, accusing stares from people who ought to know better, but today I have very little inclination to even flip these people the verbal bird. No, today I've got better things to do, so I just let their words fade away like water off an angel's back. I find the nearest mutant-friendly coffee house (you can usually tell if they're willing to serve you by looking for a blue 'X' motif sticker in the window, and for any unusual-looking patrons) and settle into the closest sofa, waiting for a waitress to come and take my order. While I'm doing that, I unhook Tom from my chest and let him lay quietly on a blanket that I've stretched out across the table in front of me. He's quite happy to follow strands of light as they arc through the window – but I know from experience that that won't keep him amused for long, so I ready Octy and Dot just in case.

It doesn't take more than a couple of minutes, though, for a pale-skinned girl with dyed-blue hair, blue-painted lips and a nose stud to come and stand by my seat, pen and paper at the ready and a snow-white pinafore tied around her slender waist. From glancing at her name-tag, I can see her name is Tonya, and from her attitude, I can tell that I'm probably not the weirdest mutant she's ever seen before – which I find pretty refreshing, actually.

"Hi," she says, sounding a little tired (although whether that's from getting up early or staying up late, I'm not sure). "Can I take your order, sir?"

"Yeah – I'll have a double mocha with no sugar or milk, a Danish pastry with apricot and… uh…" I pause for a moment or two, unsure of whether or not I should carry on. "Can you warm this bottle for me?" I hold up a full bottle of milk from my carry-all. "I wouldn't ask, normally, but –"

"But this is a special occasion," Tonya finishes brightly, her mood apparently lifted by my request. "I understand – I have a son of my own, although it's been a little while since he was this small." When she's sure her boss isn't looking, she bends down and touches Tom on the arm gently, blowing him a kiss as she does so. "So how old is this little guy?"

"About a month now," I tell her, before rubbing my eyes with exhaustion. "Feels a lot longer than that sometimes, though. He's already a handful, and he can't even eat solid food yet..."

"Oh, I know what you mean," Tonya chuckles. "It gets better, though – trust me. You just have to wait until they're past two, that's all."

"Thanks; that's real comforting," I say, a wry smile creasing my lips. "I'll send the therapy bills to your boss."

Tonya laughs. "Ah, he'd just sue you. He'd sue his own mother if he thought he could get an extra cent out of her." Suddenly mindful of him again, she puts the bottle on her tray and stands up straight, looking as if somebody has lit a firecracker under her behind. "So… that's one double mocha with no sugar or milk, a Danish with apricot, and a warm bottle of milk. Anything else, sir?"

I shake my head. "No, thank you – that's everything."

"Okay, then. It'll be with you as soon as possible, Mr Worthington." She laughs as I blink in surprise at hearing my name spoken by a stranger on our first meeting, and then winks at me playfully. "Oh, come on, man… don't act so surprised. How many blue-skinned angels are there in New York, anyway?"

She has a point, I guess. "You know, Tonya, I hate it when the help gets smart," I say, dryly, to which Tonya again responds with a breezy laugh.  
"Keep talking like that and your kid won't get his milk," she says as she is walking away, swinging her hips with brash confidence. When she is gone, I turn my attention back to my son – who, amazingly, is still quiet and happy. I decide to try and keep him that way until the two of us can get something to eat, so I wave Dot from side to side above him, hoping that the bright colours will keep him occupied. The little giraffe's head bounces up and down, and her slightly floppy legs follow suit. Tom makes a delighted sound and follows every movement of the toy intently, as if he is convinced that he can catch it. Then, just to throw him a bit of a curve ball, I hide Dot behind my back, and then show her to him again after about a second or so, before repeating the process twice more. It seems to work, too, since Tom's noises become more and more excited and happy every time the little giraffe reappears. In fact, it seems that both of us are having so much fun that I don't notice Tonya has returned – at least, not until she coughs politely to let me know she's come back. "Sorry," she says, resting her tray down onto the table next to Tom and laying out everything that she's brought back for us. "Didn't want to disturb you two more than I had to."

I wave my hand dismissively. "Nah, it's okay. We'll live."

"Well, okay. As long as you're sure," Tonya says. "How about you, sweetie? You all right?" She bends down to Tom again, and holds out her free hand. From the centre of her palm erupts a small globe of light, perfectly spherical except for wisps of escaping energy. Its outer layer is covered with swirling colours, like oil on the surface of a puddle. Tom laughs and reaches up towards it, almost mesmerised by the shifting patterns in Tonya's palm.

Tonya sees me looking at her in surprise, and sighs. "Oh, come on. You didn't think I  _dyed_  my hair, did you? It's all natural, honey, and so is this. I know it ain't twelve-foot wings or eye-beams or tele-whatever, but it keeps Bobby happy. He calls it 'Mommy's lullaby lights'." She holds up her other hand and "juggles" the light from one palm to the other, before closing her fists and letting the glow fade away slowly. Her boss has noticed her standing by me at this point, though, and he yells at her to get back to work. "Yeah, yeah, blow it out your ass, Tony!" she snorts, sticking a middle finger up at him. When she sees me looking at her with wide, surprised eyes, she winks. "Ah, don't worry; he won't fire me. He knows I'm the best way of getting mutant customers in here." She nods at her watch. "Say… I get off work in about a half hour. You want to go get a… cup of coffee, or something?" She smiles sheepishly at her awkward phrasing, and then looks at me with a half-heartedly expectant expression.

"Well, I… uh… I'm married," I say, holding up my left hand so that the wedding ring on my finger gleams. "I'm sorry –"

"I  _know_ you're married, knucklehead," Tonya retorts, slapping me on the shoulder. "I read the society magazines. Nothing wrong with the two of us sharing a cup of coffee, is there? Besides it's not like I'm going to be able to seduce you. I mean, God… I live in a freakin' sweat-box of an apartment in Brooklyn with no air-conditioning, on a waitress' wage, and I have to take a second job on weekends just to make ends meet, keep my kid in decent clothes, and give him all the things he deserves. You? You probably floss your teeth with torn-up hundred-dollar bills." Pausing, she looks up at the ceiling for a moment or two. "Look, much as I'd  _like_  a handsome rich man with wings to do a  _Pretty Woman_  and fly in here to sweep me off my feet, I'm not going to angle for it, either." She folds her arms. "So come on, honey – coffee? Just the three of us?"

"I'm probably going to regret this," I begin, "but why not?"

Delight flares in Tonya's eyes. "Great!" she exclaims. "I'll see you then, I guess."

"Sure. See you then." I crack a smile of my own, before picking up the bottle on the table and trying to get Tom to take some of his mid-morning snack. Naturally, Tom refuses to take from the bottle, and begins to yowl like a needy kitten. It's not long, though, before he decides that he'd rather take from the bottle than go hungry, since milk comes more easily from the bottle's teat than his mother's breast, and it keeps him quiet for a little while. After a feed, he gets sleepy and inattentive, like most babies, so after I've had my mocha and Danish, I put him back in his harness and let him rest against me while the two of us got for a little walk around the block. The timeframe I have gives me enough space to buy what Betsy needs, and to get myself a copy of the  _Wall Street Journal_  so I can check my stock, so there's enough for me to occupy myself with. And besides, I have to deal with the odd woman coming up to me to tell me that she would die to have a baby as adorable as mine, or a husband as enlightened as me, which is actually a pretty nice change. Usually, you'd think that having blue skin would be a hindrance, but they seem to love Tom and me equally well regardless of what we look like.

It's a nice change, and I intend to enjoy it while I can. Even through changing Tom's diaper mid-way through the half-hour and making a mess of it the first three times, the nice feeling remains.

Soon, though, the half-hour is up, and I have to make my way back to Tonya's coffee house. She sees me coming from inside, through the giant pane of glass that makes up the shop's frontage, and waves at me while she is slipping her black leather jacket on over her shoulders. I wait for her to leave the shop and then I greet her. "Hi," I say, simply, and she nods in a slightly breathless kind of way.

"Hi," she replies, as she is fiddling with the fastening of her jacket – which it seems has caught the strap of her handbag. "Sorry… just in such a hurry to leave, I kinda got myself tied up here." It takes her a moment or so to disentangle herself, and then she runs her fingers through her hair and exhales deeply, obviously trying to compose herself and not quite succeeding. "So… how you been?"

"I think I managed to survive the last half-hour without any big accidents," I say, laughing. "So how come you get off work this early?"

Tonya points at the door of the coffee house, showing me the hours that it opens. "This place is open twenty-four hours, honey; I've been at work since four this morning. Some of our best customers can't come out in sunlight hours, if you know what I mean. Hurts their skin, or their eyes, or whatever, so they have to get their cups of java in the middle of the night, and they have to have somebody there to serve them coffee, get them their donuts, and look cute in a short skirt and halter top all at the same time. So, here I am – the amazing Midnight Coffee Girl." She strikes a pose, flinging her arms out to her side theatrically. "You think I could make it as a superhero?"

I laugh. "I think you have to have something more substantial to fight bad guys with than just a smart mouth and a lot of chutzpah." Tonya puts her hands on her hips, intrigued.

"Oh, come on – Spider-Man does it all the time. What's he got that I don't?"

"Super-strength, super-speed, web-shooters, a spider-sense that warns him of danger… and a really cool outfit," I say, matter-of-factly. "Like I said – just having a smart mouth isn't going to save you from the Green Goblin or Doctor Octopus."

"You're a real spoilsport, dude, you know that?" Tonya slips her arm into mine, before gesturing at it with her free hand and asking, slightly apologetically, "You don't mind, do you?"

"This once," I admonish her gently. "If it happens again, I'm afraid I'm going to have to call the principal to discuss your behaviour."

"Ooh, a disciplinarian," Tonya exclaims. "I like you even more already..."

* * *

 

Central Park is bright as the sun climbs towards its noon high. The trees are still bare of leaves, but there are a few green buds here and there on their branches, punctuating their otherwise drab look. There are surprisingly few people around, but a few couples are scattered here and there, lying on blankets and sitting on park benches sharing coffee, donuts and conversation. Tonya leads me towards the closest bench, and sits down next to me. "I love the park this time of year," she says, stretching out her arms and legs and arching her back. "Bobby and I used to come here all the time, before he had to start kindergarten and I had to get that job at the coffee house."

"What happened to Bobby's father?" I ask, knowing almost as soon as the words have left my mouth that I probably shouldn't have said anything. Tonya's face twists in dulled but still vividly remembered pain, and then she shakes her head.

"We… had a disagreement," she replies, her voice soft (a far cry from her previous confident tone). "He had a job overseas, and he wanted me to go with him. I said no, because I wanted to raise our son here in New York, not in some foreign sinkhole without running water, electricity or a public health system. Long story short: he told me to go to hell, so here I am."

"I'm sorry to hear that," I say, as sympathetically as possible. "You must really love your son, to do that for him."

"Oh, yeah," she says, her face brightening a little. "I'd do anything for that little boy. Him and me, we have a lot of fun together – we play video games and football, and go out for ice cream whenever I have a day off. Funky Mom, that's me."

"So where is he now?" I can feel the edge of the abyss staring me in the face, but, like I always do, I seem prepared to jump off it.

"He's at school, you idiot," Tonya laughs. "Remember? That place where they have teachers and chalkboards and milk at recess?"

"Oh," I say, feeling my cheeks start to burn in embarrassment. "Where's his school?"

"It's near Empire State University." Tonya gestures airily with her hand in the direction of ESU, and then folds her hand back into her jacket. "My mom sometimes collects him and takes him back to her place, if I'm working an afternoon shift. Days like today are just for him and me, though – I think I'm going to challenge him to a  _Street Fighter IV_  tournament when I get home. He loves that game." She notices me opening my mouth to say something and simply ploughs right through me. "I know, I know, I shouldn't give such violent games to a six year-old. But it keeps him happy, and I think I prefer the thought of him taking his aggression out on a TV screen than the guys at school who make him angry. Besides, it helps give me some breathing space, if he can get his own back on me for making him go to bed before nine PM."

I nod thoughtfully. "I see. Is that something you've learned from practice, or what?"

"I wish," Tonya says. "Bobby and I don't believe in practice."

"You should," I tell her. "It helps. I can play the cello because of practice… and because my dad told me that if I didn't  _do_ the practice, he'd take away my horses."

Tonya raises an eyebrow. "Wow. You sure did have a hard time when you were a kid." She mimes blood pumping from her chest with both hands. "My heart bleeds."

"Ha, ha, ha," I say dryly. "Piece of advice, kid: don't give up your day job."

"What, and give up pouring coffee for people I don't know?" Tonya scoffs. "That's the stupidest idea I ever heard."

"Yeah. What was I thinking?" I agree, stroking Tom's head gently with one hand.

"I don't like to speculate," Tonya answers, folding her arms in close to her body and checking her watch at the same time. "I wouldn't want to embarrass you, honey."

I blink. "Hey, you're looking at Warren Worthington the Third. Nobody can embarrass me except me… and maybe my wife." I pause. "Make that  _definitely_  my wife." Then, something occurs to me. "Say… we never got that coffee you wanted. Do you –"

Tonya laughs. "Honey, I work in a coffee house. The  _last_  thing I want to drink right now is coffee. I thought you'd guessed that was just an opening line." She pauses. "How about we go get a Coke instead?" When she sees me looking a little indecisive, she ups the ante a little with a bribe. "Come on – I'll buy you a jelly donut."

"Now that's an offer I can't refuse," I say. "All right; let's go for it."

Tonya brings our order of two super-sized Cokes and cheeseburgers to the table I'd picked out, which is situated by the restaurant's front window, and slides down in the seat opposite me. "Here you go – a cheeseburger with no pickles, a giant Coke, and one strawberry jelly donut." She pauses for a second, and then gestures at my cheeseburger, giving me a sceptical look at the same time. "How can you eat a cheeseburger with no pickles? They're the whole reason the damn things have any flavour!"

"Are you kidding?" I splutter, through a half-swallowed mouthful of burger meat, ketchup and processed cheese. "I hate pickles!"

"You weren't born in New York, were you?" Tonya says in a dry tone, looking at me through half-lidded eyes. "I bet you've never had a decent cheeseburger in your life." She slurps a mouthful of Coke and winces at its chill. "So…" she continues, "you haven't told me about your wife and kid yet. Come on, honey – spill it."

"Well, okay." I take a deep breath. "Betsy and I have been married for a couple of years now, and we've already got two children –"

"Two kids?" Tonya says, incredulous. "Already? Wow. You guys must never get out of bed."

"Well, one's adopted," I explain. "Rebecca is a little younger than you. She was… orphaned… a little while ago, so Betsy and I adopted her. We thought we'd never get the chance to have a baby of our own, so having Becca seemed like the next best thing." I smile. "I'll tell you now, though - if I knew then what I know now, I'd have said no the moment somebody asked me to sign the adoption papers."

"That bad, huh?" Tonya asks, perceptively.

"Oh, you bet," I reply. "But Betsy and I made time to talk to her, to try and help her adjust to what had happened, and I think it's been good for all three of us. If you knew Rebecca back then, and then met Rebecca now, you'd think she was a completely different person. Oh, sure, she can still have a tantrum now and again," and I laugh as memories of times like that swim to the surface of my brain, "but most of the time, she's the best daughter we could hope for."

"Sounds like you've got yourself a pretty good deal there." Tonya slugs back some more Coke, and then brings her last few fries to her mouth and swallows them after a few quick chews. "I hope Bobby grows up that well." She gestures at Tom, who is slumbering against my chest and clutching reflexively at Octy with one tiny hand. "So was this little guy planned, or did he just… happen, like Bobby did?"

"He just happened, I guess. Like I said, Betsy and I didn't think we were really capable of having children. I thought I was sterile, and Betsy thought…" My voice trails off. "Well, let's just say she thought that her body couldn't tolerate pregnancy."

Tonya nods thoughtfully. "I guess that's code for 'I don't want to talk about that', huh?"

"Is it that obvious?"

"Honey, I get that sort of talk all the time at the coffee house. You're not the first caffeine junkie to start telling me things that you don't want to finish, you know."

I smile, feeling very relieved all of a sudden. "No, I guess not. Thanks for understanding."

"Not a problem," Tonya says. "Like I said, you're not the first, and you sure as hell won't be the last. Coffee does weird things to people."

"I don't doubt it," I say, sucking a mouthful of Coke from my own cup and feeling its icy chill flow down my throat with relish. "I think I'll stick to Coke from now on…"

"Still got caffeine in it, you dope," Tonya laughs, before knocking on the centre of my forehead as if she is expecting to hear an echo. "I guess money can't buy you brains after all."

"Remember who's picking up the tab here," I admonish her, wagging my finger reproachfully. "Stupid or not, I'm still paying for this."

"Not for the donuts," Tonya counters. "They're all mine, honey." She swipes the bag containing our jelly donuts off the table and settles it in her lap. "And now I get to enjoy them all by myself." She rummages through the bag until she finds a fat, sugar-encrusted donut, and then bites into it, causing bright strawberry jelly to spurt out onto her fingers. "Yeah, baby," she says ecstatically, rolling her eyes in appreciation of the donut's texture and flavour, before pushing some stray sugar into the corner of her mouth and cleaning the jelly off her fingers at the same time. "Come to mama… that's the stuff."

I raise an eyebrow. "Very pretty. Can I have my donut now, please?"

"No way, man," Tonya mumbles through a mouthful of dough. "I told you, these are all mine." She hugs the bag close to her chest, cradling it like her life depends on it. "You're not getting any of them until you play nice."

"Ah, be that way, then," I say, holding my hand up in mock-dismissal. "I'm going to go change Tom's diaper. Poor little guy's been wearing the same one for a while now – he's got to be getting a little uncomfortable."

"You need a hand?" Tonya asks, her mischievous smile fading into a look of concern. "I don't mind, honey, really –"

"No, I'm okay; I've had lots of practice," I tell her, shaking my head. "Thanks for the offer, anyway." I leave her in her seat and walk towards the door that leads to the bathrooms and baby-changing facilities.

When Tom is changed and cleaned up, I come back to my seat to find my donut sitting on top of the paper bag it came in. Tonya waits until I have sat down and then smiles coyly at me. "I thought you deserved it, after doing that all by your lonesome," she says, fluttering her eyelashes at me in a cute kind of way.

"Well, I'm glad you approve," I fire back at her, before picking up the donut and eagerly taking a mouthful of dough and rich, sticky strawberry jelly out of its side. "Wow… that is good."

"Told you this place did the best donuts in the whole of New York," Tonya says. "But did you believe me?"

I roll my eyes. "All right, all right, I get it. You were right."

Tonya snaps her sugar-encrusted fingers and nods appreciatively, before sitting back in her chair and folding her arms. "Thanks, honey," she says, rocking back on her chair a little. "I knew you'd agree eventually."

It doesn't take us long to finish off the bag of donuts, so we leave our table as clean as we can and then head off into the outside world again – and just as we do so, the sky darkens and opens up with the beginnings of a shower of rain. Not wanting any of us to get any wetter than we absolutely have to, I extend my wings to their full height to ease out some lingering kinks and then spread them partially so that they act as something of an umbrella, sheltering Tonya and Tom from as much cascading water as possible. "I really ought to be getting home," Tonya says against the noise of the rain, tapping her watch with wet fingers. "Mom and Bobby'll be wondering where I am."

"You need a cab?" I ask, fumbling for the wallet sitting in my inside breast pocket, before Tonya stops me by laying a hand on my arm.

"Don't worry," she says firmly. "I only live a few blocks away. I can manage." She gestures up at my wings with a fingertip. "Although I could probably use an umbrella."

"Your wish is my command," I tell her, winking. "Which way are we going?" Tonya points to our right, and we begin heading off in that direction as quickly as we can in our partially-crouched position, rain splashing into puddles at our feet. At almost exactly the same time, the rain begins to intensify, and the sky starts to darken even more. Tonya quickens her pace and I follow suit until we are walking as fast as we can without running, and our feet are splashing against the soaking sidewalk. Cars pass us and run into deepening puddles that throw up large walls of water, which we're often just able to miss (although we do get hit once or twice… which really doesn't matter since we're already pretty wet anyway).

Eventually, we make it to a tall brick apartment block, which is fronted with the sills of several dozen windows. Tonya reaches over to the side of the door and pushes a button next to a small speaker. A small boy's voice squeals "Hello, the Anderson residence. How may I help you?"

"Hi, Bobby, honey," Tonya says in a soft voice. "Mommy's home. Could you let her in?"

"Hi, sweetie," a mature female voice answers, evidently having taken over from Bobby for one reason or another, before pausing and then continuing "There you go. Come on in." The door buzzes as the electronic lock is disabled, and Tonya pulls at the handle with her right hand. She looks back at me and says "Would you like to come in? I bet my son and my mom would love to meet you and Tom."

"You sure?" I ask, uncertainly. "I don't want to impose –"

Tonya waves a hand dismissively. "It's no problem, honestly. My mom's probably baked a whole batch of cookies just because she got bored, so we can pig out on those if you like."

I can never pass up free cookies, so I accept. We enter the building and Tonya leads me to the elevator, ushering me inside and pushing the button for the third floor, giving it a couple more stabs just to get the button lit and the elevator moving. "Piece of junk never wants to get going," she tells me with tired disgust. "All the other tenants are real tired of having to put up with it, but our wonderful mechanic never fixes the damn thing, no matter how many times we ask him." Once the elevator has come to a stop, the doors hiss open and we exit into a bare but functional hallway, which is lined with six doors on either side. Tonya finds the third door on the right side, and pushes the buzzer on the side of the doorframe. The door opens and a stoutly-built woman in a red dress and with her hair piled up on top of her head greets Tonya with an affectionate hug and kiss on the cheek.

"Hello, darling," she says, before she notices me and her jaw almost slams straight into the floor. She looks at Tonya almost conspiratorially and whispers "Is that who I think it is?"

" _Yes,_  Mom, it's who you think it is." Tonya ushers her over towards me. "It's all right. He's my guest. You can say hi if you like." Her mother edges closer to me as if she can't quite believe a millionaire is standing in her hallway (although I guess if we switched places, I don't think I could quite believe either), and holds out her hand. Time to turn on the charm, I guess…

I take her hand and gently kiss it. "Nice to meet you, Mrs Anderson. My name is –"

"Warren Worthington the Third," she breathes, almost before I can finish my sentence. "Jackie. Um… my name. That's my name." Her cheeks flush red in embarrassment.

"Nice to meet you, Jackie," I say again, before a small green-skinned shape peeks out behind his grandmother, and looks at me suspiciously with hourglass-shaped pupils set into brilliant yellow eyes. I kneel so that I'm at his height and enquire "And this must be the man of the house. What's your name, sir?"

"Bobby," the little boy says as he moves out of his grandmother's shadow, proud that I'm addressing him directly. He sticks out a small, scaly hand to say hello, and it's then that I notice that his fingers and toes are tipped with retractable talons that could probably gut a mouse. And not only that, but the large toe on each foot is blessed with a vicious-looking sickle claw, which it seems is held off the ground by pure muscular tension. Their serrated, recurved edges look capable of inflicting a pretty nasty gash. Still, it's not like I don't have experience with guys with claws, so I grasp the boy's hand and shake it firmly. Bobby looks at me for a second and then says, with the total confidence that small children have, "Are you from TV?"

I put a hand to my chin in thought. "Well, I've been on TV with my wife a few times, I think. Where do you think you saw me?"

"That vampire show with the pretty lady," Bobby says. "Was that you?"

I laugh. "Different kind of angel. I don't drink blood, I'm afraid." Bobby looks a little disappointed by that reply.

"Aw, man," he says, kicking at the floor and narrowly missing cutting a long scratch in the boards with his left toe-claw. "That's no fun. That guy's cool."

Tonya scolds him for being rude to her guest and then ushers me into their lounge, which is small but homely. The TV in the corner has a Playstation sat on top of it, with a small stack of games lined up on either side. "Make yourself at home, Warren. I just have to go freshen up, and I'll be with you in five minutes," Tonya says, gesturing towards the sofa, which is apparently beginning to look its age. "I'm sure Bobby'll let you play with his Playstation if you ask nicely." She glances at Bobby, who gulps. "Won't you, Bobby?"

"Yes, ma'am," Bobby says after a pause. The large claws on his feet tap-tap-tap against the wooden floor of the apartment in sullen acceptance, before he looks up at me and asks "Can you play Street Fighter, Mister Angel?"

"I suppose there's a first time for everything," I say. "And call me Warren, Bobby." Handing Tom to Tonya, so that I can move a little more freely, I sit down in front of the TV with my newfound friend.

Five crushingly one-sided games of Street Fighter IV later, I've been thoroughly thrashed and Bobby is bouncing up and down in his seat, his small face split wide into a gleeful fanged smile. "Look, Mom, I beat Warren!" he crows when his mother comes to rescue me from further humiliation.

"Well done, sweetie," Tonya says, as she is giving Tom back to me. "I changed his diaper again. He needed it, from the smell of things."

"Thanks," I say, grateful in more than one way. "I appreciate it." Cradling Tom against me, I silence his soft, keening cries of discomfort by rocking him from side to side slightly. He yawns, and then sneezes quietly, before settling into my chest and gurgling with gentle regularity.

"Is he your son?" Bobby asks, pointing up at Tom.

"Yes," I say, sitting down on the sofa's worn cushions again. "Would you like to say hello?"

"Sure!" Bobby exclaims, pulling himself up onto the sofa from his cross-legged position on the floor. He settles himself into the cushion closest to me, and looks with silent wonder at my son as Tom coos softly in my arms. "He's blue, like you are," he says thoughtfully. "Does that mean his mom is blue as well?"

"No, his mom is the same colour as your mom," I grin. "Our daughter is the same colour as her, so we have one of each."

"Really?" Bobby says, digesting that information equally thoughtfully. "You must have a funny family."

Before Tonya can scold him again, I say "I guess you could say that, yeah. But I love them all very much, and I'd do anything for them, just like your mom would do anything for you." Tonya flushes bright pink at that, so I give her a subtle wink to relax her a little. "Would you like to meet them one day?"

Bobby's eyes light up and he turns back towards his mother to ask for vindication. "Can I go, Mom?"

Tonya breathes out long and hard, shock still flickering across her face. "If… if Mr Worthington says it's okay, then you can go." Then she gestures towards the door of the lounge and continues "Why don't you go help Grandma clear out the kitchen, honey? I'm sure she'd love to have you to talk to." Bobby protests, but eventually he makes his way out of the lounge and into the adjoining hallway. When he's gone, Tonya turns back towards me and says "When you said you wanted him to meet your family… were you serious?"

"Absolutely," I say. "I want him to meet Rebecca and Betsy. And the offer's open to you as well, Tonya, if you want to take me up on it."

Tonya crumples into the sofa next to me, stunned. She rubs her hands over her face as if she is trying to clear her head of conflicting emotions, and then clasps a finger and thumb to the bridge of her nose. "You'd better not be lying, buddy, or I'll kick your ass. I don't want my son getting hurt."

"That's not why I said what I said," I say, trying to sound as reassuring as I can. "I've enjoyed being with you today, Tonya. It's been a lot of fun, and I'd like to try and pay you back in kind. I just want to let you know how much I appreciate what you've done for me today –  _without_  looking like a rich jerk trying to buy your gratitude." I reach into a pocket and draw out my chequebook. "I mean, I could write you a cheque now if you really wanted me to, but –"

"But I don't want you to," Tonya interjects, a frank expression on her face. "I don't want your money, Warren. If I took it, then you'd really look like a rich jerk trying to buy my gratitude, and I don't think that label really suits you." She laughs. "You can buy my son something if you like, though. He's been begging me to get him the latest Rayman game, and I just haven't been able to. If you could get him a copy of that, you'd make Bobby's day – and mine, too."

"Okay," I agree. "That sounds like a good plan, I guess."

"It's a deal, then," Tonya says, satisfied, before she plants a grateful kiss on my cheek. "Thank you, Warren. Hopefully now I won't have to listen to Bobby asking me for the same thing every day."

"It might, at that," I reply, before a thought strikes me. "Say… do you want to arrange a time to visit now, or should we exchange phone numbers and do it that way?"

"Up to you," Tonya says, with a slight lift of her shoulders. "I don't even know where you live, so the ball's pretty much in your court, honey."

"Oh. I can see why that might be a problem," I say sheepishly, before reaching into my inside breast pocket and taking out my wallet again. Inside it are a half a dozen business cards which I normally use when I'm meeting new clients. Peeling one off the small pile, I hand it to Tonya in the same motion. "Here. That's got my cell phone number, email address and mailing address on it, so you've always got at least one way to get a hold of me."

"Thanks," Tonya says, before grabbing a scrap of paper and scrawling something on it in black ballpoint. "There you go. That's my cell phone number and the address for this box. No email address yet, though. Maybe next year." Abruptly, she jabs a finger at me in an almost pre-emptive gesture. "If you offer to buy me a computer, Warren, I'll scream."

I hold my hands up, as if to back away from her righteous indignation. "The thought never crossed my mind."

"Good," Tonya smiles, "because I've got one on order, and having two would just be silly."

"It probably would, at that," I agree, before glancing at my watch. "I should probably be getting home. Betsy'll be wondering where Tom and I have disappeared to."

Tonya nods, looking a little disappointed. "I suppose so," she says, before kissing me on the cheek again, a little more lingeringly this time. "Your wife's a lucky woman, having you for a husband." She pauses. "I'll call you next week, and we'll get this visit fixed up, okay?" Then she calls to her son and mother to come say goodbye to me, and after about five minutes of trying to convince Bobby that he'll get to see me again, I'm finally on my way home, Tom totally unconscious against my chest.

I think I know how he feels… it's been a long day, and I want to get home to my wife.

After all, I still have to explain who'll be coming to dinner next week…


End file.
